


Traces

by Magnolia822



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season 2 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Reichenbach, John finds traces of Sherlock everywhere he goes. What will happen when he discovers the truth? A fic that traces the fallout of Series Two and segues into my (very wishful) interpretation of Series Three. Spoilers for Series Two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The BBC owns these characters. This fic is betaed by AsyaAna and Britpicked by im_not_a_lizard, lovely ladies that they are.

He didn’t bother sorting their flat, the things that over the span of two years had become _theirs_ , weren’t even separable anymore.

A petri dish with God knows what sort of mold or infectious disease growing inside, a colony that was thriving in spite of everything. He sniffed it and set it down, fighting a grimace or a smile. The spoon Sherlock had used the day before their lives had gone horribly awry still retained a dried, circular impression of milky tea. Not sure what he was doing, or why, he picked it up and pressed the flat of his tongue against the curve, the faint tannin souring his mouth. He couldn’t find it in him to wash the spoon or dispose of the bloody petri dish, and then there was the violin. He couldn’t bear the thought of never hearing Sherlock play again.

And so he took his coat, wished a crying Mrs. Hudson farewell, and walked across London towards his sister’s flat. The day was surprisingly pleasant, given that he’d just attended his best friend’s funeral as one of three mourners. Three, for the most amazing person John had ever met. Three.

One could almost imagine that it wasn’t the sort of day someone died at all; still, John wasn’t foolish enough to lie to himself. He had seen enough death in his life to know when it was real. He could forgive Sherlock anything, but he’d never forgive him for this, for dying, leaving him as one half of a whole he didn’t even know had existed. It wasn’t clear when exactly it had become true, when he’d stopped living alone and had started living with someone else—not in the sense of sharing a flat, though of course that was true, too—but living for them. For him.

Once he arrived at Harry’s he paused. The idea of staying in one place, static, made his vision go fuzzy and his heart rattle in his ribs. He turned up his coat collar and strode away, feeling the urge to limp and fighting it as the panic receded. He hailed a taxi, only then realizing he was holding the tweed cap that had become Sherlock’s trademark though he despised it. John had always thought it rather funny.

 _You have to give the public what they want._

Sherlock had scowled at him. _The public are fiends and if you give them what they want, they’ll eat you alive._

 _But you look so distinguished,_ John had teased, making Sherlock stop complaining long enough for their photo-op. Watson, confirmed bachelor, and Holmes, consulting detective. The press sometimes hit too close to home. John hadn’t been ready then.

How strange that of all of the things in their flat, he would have come away with this particular object. _Surely war wasn’t more devastating,_ John thought. _He wore this hat, and I’m holding it, and it holds traces of him. Skin cells. DNA._ Funny . . . John was ready now, and it was too late.

“Where to?” asked the cabbie. John stared at the hat, crumpled and sweaty from his hands, noting where his wrist had been rubbed raw from the cuffs when he and Sherlock had fled from the police. It was red, the wound, and angry looking, and he wanted it to remain always, hated the thought of it ever healing.

The driver spoke again, irritated. “I said, where you headed?”

“I don’t know,” John said. He could still feel the tug of Sherlock’s hand.


	2. Part Two

He found himself on a train headed north, then checking into a shabby hotel in a once popular resort town which was now nearly devoid of tourists. Only the few year-round residents remained—old people, people who’d been born by the sea and made a living from it while others came and went like the tides. It was good to see no one. John bought himself a toothbrush and a package of crisps.

The walk on the pier was self-indulgent and cliché, especially as it was rather grey and blustery—a day with the sorts of clouds that always threaten, but never quite deliver, rain. Sherlock would have given him a look, cocked his head just so, and made a pronouncement about the futility of mourning.

 _I can do what I like_ , John thought. _I can do this, so piss off._

He knew that by leaving without a word he’d probably made people worry—his mobile had rung late into the night until he silenced it. Others cared about him. Mrs. Hudson, of course, and Harry. Lestrade had been devastated at the funeral; John had seen it in his eyes, but he’d had to look away, refusing to acknowledge the detective’s obvious guilt. He was a good man, Lestrade, and so John kept his words and his fists to himself this time. After all, it wasn’t his fault his department was filled with jealous wankers who would rather destroy a genius of a man rather than admit their own incompetence. It was, however, his fault he still believed Sherlock had had a hand in all of this Moriarty nonsense—that Sherlock wasn’t _real._

John knew better. What he’d said at the graveside had been true.

 _You were the best man and human being that I’ve ever known and no one will convince me that you told a lie._

A seagull landed next to John on the bench he'd found at the end of the pier. For a while they sat in companionable silence, looking out over the surf. The bird blinked its glassy, black eyes and shat, waiting for a bit of food.  John drew out the crisps from his coat pocked and emptied them onto the ground, watching as it was joined by a few of its fellows to fight for the spoils. He couldn’t bear to eat the damn things. They were Sherlock’s favourite brand.

Perhaps if he just relived the events in his head he could stop this. If Sherlock had never testified against Moriarty, if John had just told Sherlock earlier about his visit with Mycroft . . . if John hadn’t fallen for the fib about Mrs. Hudson and left Sherlock alone.

 _No, John._ He could hear Sherlock’s voice as plain as if the man were next to him instead of a flock of squawking seabirds. _Nothing would have stopped this_.

 _How do you know? I could have stopped it, made you listen._

 _It was part of the game. You couldn’t have._

 _You bastard. Why did you let me watch you die?_

 _I wanted to see you one last time._

 _If I had known it was the last, I would have said something else to you._

 _I already know, John._

 _No, you don’t. You don’t._

At some point John realized he was probably barking mad, sitting and conversing with Sherlock’s voice in his head. He couldn’t be bothered to care.

 _Don’t you realize nothing was worth the cost of your life? Nothing. I loved you, you utter bastard. It should have been me._

Sherlock stayed silent, and try as he may, John couldn’t imagine his response. He laughed bitterly at the fact his own subconscious seemed to have gotten away from him. _Try that one on for size, doctor._


	3. Part Three

  
In the years they’d known each other, they’d only touched—really touched—once. John’s wrist had healed in the weeks he’d been by the sea and hadn’t even left a scar. Still, he fingered it absently sometimes, remembering.

 _John, hold my hand._

At night he dreamed that they were still running. He could feel the slippery, uneven cobblestones under the soles of his shoes, hear Sherlock’s exultant laugh and the implied _are we having fun yet?_ If either let go of the other, he’d fall. For John, that would mean going back to the place where he once lay gasping for breath in the desert, blood running red into the sand. He didn’t know where Sherlock would go.

 _We need to coordinate._

Sherlock was a stride ahead, pulling John along. His long legs took him easily over the wrought iron fence, but instead of urging John over this time, he paused, and then they were back at Baker Street, standing close together. Sherlock's eyes were dark, nearly black. They were still holding hands.

When he woke John imagined what it would have been like to hold Sherlock’s hand when they weren’t running for their lives.

 _What would it have been like to kiss Sherlock?_

The thought occurred to him one morning while having a cuppa at a shop in town, hitting him like a shot. Tea sloshed out of the cup and over his new trousers, making it look as though he’d pissed himself. He cursed and swiped at the mess, standing up abruptly and rattling the table with his hip. The porcelain fell and shattered on the linoleum floor.

“Oh,” said the waitress, a middle-aged woman with a gravelly voice. “Let me help with that, love.”

“Sorry, sorry,” John said, bent over, gathering the pieces. His hands were still shaking.

“It’s quite all right. Happens to the best of us,” she replied, fetching a broom. John stood and watched while she made quick work of the rest.

He’d never kissed a man before, never had any desire to, but as he paid the cheque and gathered his coat, apologizing again ( _Sorry about that, so sorry. Don’t pay it any more mind, dear_ ), he couldn’t stop imagining it. It made his throat burn.   

 _What are you doing in this horrible little town, John?_

This morning, Sherlock’s baritone was inflected with noted distaste.

“None of your damn business,” John muttered. “Would you please get out of my head?”

 _You don’t really want that, do you?_

No, he really didn’t. He liked that he could still imagine Sherlock’s voice, even while the details of his face were fading—

 _It seems to me you’re wasting your time._

“I’ll do with my time what I like, thank you very much.” A man passing by on the street gave him a cockeyed look, and John realized he’d spoken aloud. Bloody hell, he really was cracked.

Later that day, John finally turned on his mobile.

Twenty-three messages, forty-eight texts, and over two thousand comments on Dr. John Watson’s very-neglected blog.

 _My condolences on the loss of your friend._

 _Richard Brook was a fraud. Long live Sherlock Holmes!_

 _. . . can’t believe he had us all fooled. London is better off without a chap who fancies himself a God . . ._

 _I wanted 2 kno if u really thot that he was innicent._

Though most of the messages were supportive, reading them put John into a state of rage the likes of which he hadn't felt since the day Anderson and Donovan convinced Lestrade to arrest Sherlock.

He was furious with some of the commenters—especially the ones who felt comfortable in their online anonymity to cast judgment—but he was angry with Sherlock, too. He hadn’t even seemed to care what people thought about him, whether they presumed he was a liar and a fraud. He’d even tried to make John believe it, and that rankled most of all.

 _Why? Did you do it so I wouldn’t mourn you? How little you knew me, then. What in the world was going_ on _in your mind?_

Apparently the Sherlock in John’s head, much like his real-life counterpart, couldn’t be bothered to respond when he didn’t like. John grit his teeth, waiting for the anger to subside. It didn't. The whole situation was like a play gone horribly wrong. There had to be some way to fix it, get someone else to direct the blasted thing.

John packed up the few belongings he’d accumulated during his sojourn in the north and took the train back to London three weeks, four days, eight hours, and fifty-two minutes after Sherlock died.


	4. Part Four

In the end John returned to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson fussed about him and insisted on halving the rent despite his protests; of course, that wasn’t why he stayed. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

While he’d been away, Mrs. Hudson had cleaned the flat and put Sherlock’s things into storage— _just in case you ever want to go through them, dear, she’d said. John had forced a smile. Maybe someday. Not yet_. It was odd going to the fridge to stash leftover takeaway and finding it devoid of severed fingers; John wondered if there was something truly wrong with him that he found the lack less than pleasant.

John erased everything from the blog except one message. _He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him._ He refused to speak to the press and stopped reading the papers.

There was too much silence in the flat, and some days it seemed he’d made a mistake coming back. He couldn’t look at Sherlock’s closed door. He kipped on the thinking couch, half-expecting his friend to barge in covered in pig’s blood and declaiming against the limited imaginations of English taxi drivers. ( _It's obviously not human blood, John, would I be parading about in such a state?_ ) On more than one occasion he’d misinterpreted footsteps on the stairs and had leapt up, heart thundering, only to force down bile when it was the postman with a package, Mrs. Hudson in a set of new trainers, Mycroft ( _still guilty, missing his brother in his own undemonstrative way_ ) come to check on him.

These were the things he didn’t tell his therapist. She asked about his feelings for Sherlock. He didn’t tell her those, either. After a few appointments full of half-truths and awkward pauses, he stopped going and ignored her when she rang.  _Just a bit of a bad patch,_ he thought. _One day I’ll wake up and it will be better. But getting out of the flat would be a Good Thing to Do._ Perhaps it would stop people from worrying.

He called the clinic and got back to work.

“I’m going to refer you to an oncologist,” John told his patient. ( _Sarah, twenty-eight years old, low white blood cell count, fatigue, bruising, probable leukemia_ ). “She’s very good. And she’ll run some more tests and, if necessary, determine a course of treatment.”  He could do this, play the part of the clinician, try and help people, but it was a horrible world, wasn’t it?

Sarah looked at him with wide eyes. “What kind of tests?”

John outlined the procedures and made the referral, trying to maintain his professional veneer as the woman shook apart in front of him.   

“I’m pregnant, Doctor Watson,” she said finally, wiping her tears with the tissue he’d proffered. “I didn’t say anything before because, well, I knew. It’s cancer. We’ve been trying for so long.” The last words were soft as a caress, the words of a mother to her child. John stared as she left the room.  
   
That night he decided to get good and pissed.

He went to their local and ordered a scotch, not caring what kind, smiling stupidly when the barman poured two-fingers of Sherlock’s favourite single malt. When had he started believing in signs?

“Haven’t seen you ‘round, mate,” said the barman. “Bad business with that Brook chap, innit?”

“Yeah.” John nodded, not feeling very talkative. He took a long, slow sip and enjoyed the burn down his throat.

“Holmes always seemed a good bloke to me; a bit particular, if you don’t mind me saying, but a good bloke.”

“He was,” said John definitively, sliding his empty glass over for another pour. He hadn’t been back to this pub since Sherlock had died.

The barman looked abashed as he slid the second drink back. “On the house, this one. Didn’t mean to offend.”

“You didn’t. It’s just . . . difficult. I’d prefer not to talk about him.”

“Right you are, mate. Right you are.” He nodded and wandered off, leaving John to his drink.

Neither John nor Sherlock had ever been heavy drinkers, but they did get pissed once, early on in their friendship. It hadn’t surprised him then that Sherlock was even more brilliant when inebriated. While John’s own mind slowed down, Sherlock’s became sharper—also sillier, dirtier. He had a fondness for puns when he was sloshed. It was also the only time he’d ever talked about his childhood.

 _What’s the bad blood between you and Mycroft?_

Sherlock had grinned, cat-like.

 _You’d like me to say something about our childhoods, I suppose, that our mother loved him more, or that it irritated me he was smarter, or perhaps I resented his ability to make_ friends.

John had felt a little foolish. He’d shrugged and looked down into his pint. _I’m sure you have much less ordinary reasons than all of those._

Sherlock had surprised him. _No,_ he’d said, his dangerous smirk growing enigmatic. _I don’t, actually. You’re quite right._

Maybe John should have snogged that bloody smile off his face right then.

“Another, mate?” asked the barman. John considered asking him to leave the bottle. Instead he nodded absently.

The night wore on and the pub filled with people. John found himself in a nook by the door nursing his fifth—sixth?—whiskey, trying to make it last. The bartender had politely but firmly cut him off and he didn’t want to go back to the flat.

His thoughts were drawn back to the woman, Sarah, and her baby—if she needed the treatment John suspected she would, she’d certainly lose it. But she was young, could have another. Is it ever the same, though, to have another when you’ve lost one. Must be hard. John couldn’t fathom it, but once when he was a child, a little child, he’d come across his mum crying over a worn stuffed bear. Mum, why are you so sad, he’d wanted to know, and tugged on her. She’d hugged him tight and given him the bear. Only later when he was older did he learn he’d once had an older brother who’d lived three days. Samuel.

“John?” A female voice broke through John’s hazy thoughts. Familiar. He started and turned, squinting through the alcohol that had unfocused his gaze.

He hadn’t seen her since their last case, Molly, the morgue attendant who’d grown into a friend—wanted to be more with Sherlock, but he never—no, John would rather not think on that. She looked the same: thin lips and long hair, usually tied, now loose. She smiled, but it was too sad to be real.

“Molly Hooper. What are you doing here?” The words formed thickly on his tongue. He tried not to slur, embarrassed at the state of himself.

“I was just in the neighborhood,” she said, making room for herself on the bench. “Thought I’d pop in for a pint.”

“I’d buy you one, but m’not sure I’m allowed.” John set his glass down on the table.

“That’s okay. I’ve got one.” She held up her drink and John could just detect the antiseptic on her, the stink of the morgue that somehow smelled of life. He breathed it in. “How are you, John?”  There was something in her eyes that unsettled him, or perhaps he was just pissed.

He shrugged, playing with the glass for something to do with his hands. “Been better, ‘suppose.”

Molly nodded, and he tried not to hate the sympathetic look on her face.

“I’ve missed you ‘round the place,” she said. “I’d got used to you two. It can get a bit lonely, what with no Sherlock to comment on my makeup choices. Or boyfriend choices.”

John laughed, the first real laugh he’d had in (days, weeks, months)?

“He was such an utter arse sometimes.”

Molly grinned. “All the time.”

"That's why we loved him." He wanted to stuff the words back into his mouth, but it was too late. Molly, bless her, Molly just smiled. 

"You should stop in some time. Plenty of interesting corpses."

“I’ve missed being by,” John said, and for some reason—somehow—it was those words that broke him. He wiped his face and his fingers came away wet.    

“Oh, John.”

Nice to hug someone, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the utter nonsense. It wouldn’t do to be a crying drunk, to have sunk so low as that. But he had, and here Molly Hooper was shushing him and patting his head. He almost thought he’d like to kiss her. She patted him again and pulled away.

“We all miss him,” she said, her own voice wavering. “Greg misses him, and you, too. We should . . . maybe we should have dinner one night, the three of us?”

“You and Greg?” he asked. He wasn’t surprised at the blush that lightened her cheeks. She smiled hugely. Definitely in love, and why shouldn’t she be?  

“Wow, Molly, that’s great.”

Her enthusiasm was catching. He cleared his throat, happy to have got hold of himself.

“I can’t believe it’s been nearly a year,” she said.

It was almost spring again. John had barely noticed, and that shocked him—sobered him up. Sherlock had been gone for nearly a year and he hadn’t been counting the days, weeks, hours. It stung like a betrayal.  

“So say you’ll come round to mine,” Molly said. “Next week? Can we fix it for Tuesday?”

 _You should go, John. Molly’s cooking will probably be as abysmal as her fashion sense, but company will do you good. You should go._

He hadn’t heard Sherlock’s voice in so long he’d worried he’d lost it, lost the very dear sound. But no, he remembered.

“Tuesday, yeah, Tuesday,” John said, smiling. “Okay.”


	5. Part Five

“The medical examiner is out sick. I could use your help, if you’re free.”

John cradled his mobile against his ear and set the paper down. It hadn’t been a week since his dinner with Molly and Lestrade, and hadn’t expected to hear from the inspector so soon.

“Out sick? Aren’t there,” John cleared his throat, “numerous medical examiners?”

“There’s Racine, but he’s—“

 _A bit of an incompetent buffoon_ , he could almost hear Sherlock say.

“—a bit muddled about this one.”

“Hmm. Well, then.” Despite the hesitation in his voice, John’s heart thumped to life. He toed the floor, searching out his trainers. “What’s the case?”

“White male, aged twenty-six, found in his flat on Hanbury.”

“COD?”

“Asphyxiation, we think. But . . . it’s best for you to see for yourself.”

One shoe half-on and the other in his hand, John paused, unsure. If Lestrade had only rung him out of pity or some misguided sense of obligation, he wanted no part of it. Yes, John had been lonely, but he certainly didn’t need charity from Scotland Yard.

Lestrade must have sensed his reticence. “I'd consider it a favour, John. We can’t cock this one up. It’s high profile—the son of an MP.”

 _Hmm_ , Sherlock would have said. _Now that makes things much more interesting._

“I’m on my way.”

***

  
Later that day, after they’d filed the necessary reports and sent the body to the morgue, ( _Suspected homicide. Strangulation to mimic autoerotic asphyxiation. Someone out there didn’t want the young Mr. Whitlock talking and hoped to embarrass the family enough to keep it quiet._ ) John joined Lestrade in his office for a coffee.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” Lestrade said, pausing to take a sip, “about Sherlock.”

“Oh.” John kept his voice even. He wasn’t sure if Molly had mentioned his little slip to Greg, but wouldn’t be surprised if she had. “What about?”

“We’ve re-opened Moriarty/Brook.”

Hearing the name sent a shiver of revulsion down John’s spine, but all the same he was surprised. “I didn’t know it was ever closed.”

Lestrade leaned forward, his eyes darting to the slightly open door. Getting the hint, John kicked it shut.

“Yes, well. There was some pressure, just . . . after, from on high.”

“Hmm. That’s not surprising. What is surprising is that you yielded.” He was your friend, too, John added with a pointed look.

“I didn’t have a ch—” Lestrade said, too loudly. “I didn’t have a choice. But now someone’s come forward, a woman. She claims she forged documents for a man who fits the description of Moriarty—called himself James der Betrug. The forgeries are all for Brook.”

"Der Betrug. Bit of an odd name."

"Yes," Lestrade said with a wry smile. "Translates from German as 'the fraud'."

"How unsurprising." Moriarty had always been too sure of his own cleverness. Jim the fraud.  “So you believe her?”

The nod was almost imperceptible, but it made John want to kiss the blasted, stubborn man.

“She's in custody now, more for her own protection than anything else. If what she says is true . . . we’re talking conspiracy, government cover up.”

John immediately thought of Mycroft—surely Sherlock’s brother wouldn’t be keen on his own tactical miscalculations being made public, though he doubted that would ever come to pass. It didn’t matter now, really. Moriarty was dead and couldn’t be punished. But Sherlock’s name could be cleared. Finally. For the first time in a year, John welcomed the hope that sparked in his chest. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“What else do you need?”

"Moriarty was very careful not to give away information—the woman, we only know she made these documents—luckily we have copies—but it doesn’t prove that Sherlock wasn’t involved. We only have her word.”

“You have my word,” John said. “I was there, Greg, every day. He didn’t do this.” Even Sherlock’s final call hadn’t been enough to convince him.

“I . . . I believe you. But we still need more.” Lestrade sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “The only reason the case was reopened was because of this woman. There’s still pressure to deal with this quickly and quietly—to put it bluntly, Scotland Yard isn’t chuffed about appearing to have been wrong, especially as it’s probable that Moriarty’s criminal network is still operational. Perhaps under new leadership. This case today—”

“You think it’s related?”

Lestrade sighed again, looking pained.

“There is more, isn’t there?” John pressed.

“We have photographs from a little over a year ago . . . of Moriarty and Whitlock.”

“Compromising?” If Sherlock were here, he’d be rubbing his hands together with something like glee and pacing about like a caged animal.

“Very.”

“And you never thought to question him?”

“Of course I thought it. I was dissuaded.”

“Greg—”

“We did put Whitlock under surveillance after,” Lestrade gestured vaguely, “you know, but nothing ever came up, no dodgy connections, nothing. In any case, we stopped tracking him about two months ago, but when this new evidence came to light we were about to bring him in.”

“Can’t exactly do that anymore.”

“Right.”  

Sherlock would have loved this. The hairs prickled on the back of John's neck; if he turned around, perhaps Sherlock would be there, after all. This, this is what he was meant to do. He blew out a breath, fighting the inappropriate grin he must have inherited. “There’s your motivation,” he said, feeling giddy.

“Exactly.”

“It seems to me we need to find this murderer.”

“Yes, but we’ve questioned everyone in the building and no one saw anyone go into or out of the flat. The surveillance video is missing.”

 _What limited imaginations these bureaucrats have, John._

“The homeless network,” John muttered, more to himself than to Lestrade. “Of course. Whoever did this, they’re underestimating us.”

“Hmm?” came the confused reply.

 _Whoever performed the murder was a professional, but they were also overconfident. Overconfident people make mistakes._ _Honestly, it's surprising the Yard has functioned as long as it has without me._

“Ha, ha!” John slapped his knee, standing up. “They reckon with Sherlock gone they’ll get away with it.” He set his coffee, long grown cold and hardly drunk, down on Lestrade’s desk.

“I’m not following. What are you on about?”

John nodded, feeling lightheaded at the thrum of blood through his veins. He could actually _do_ something. It was wonderful.

“I need to go speak with some old friends.”


	6. Part Six

  
“Doctor Watson, if you’d known the search for Ralph Whitlock’s killer would take nearly two years would you still have pursued it?” A young reporter thrust her microphone into John’s face the morning the verdict was to be read in the Darragh Delaney case. He turned, seeing curiosity in her eyes rather than the cynicism he expected, and smiled.

“Of course.”

“What was your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?” the reporter asked. Molly grabbed his sleeve and pulled, trying to lead him away from the crowd of eager onlookers and flashing bulbs, but he stilled her hand.

“He was my best friend, and I loved him.”

  
It was true, and let the reporters and England and the world interpret it how they would—they’d already suspected John and Sherlock had been lovers. He wouldn’t disabuse them of that notion now. He didn’t suppose it mattered, really, since Mary had left.

“Oh, wow.” The reporter lost her composure for a moment; she couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. John chuckled.

“Come _on_ John,” said Molly, impatient. Mrs. Hudson was standing to the side looking pained; her hip had been at her lately. He nodded and the three made their way to the entranceway of the Old Bailey, a ritual they’d been performing every day for the last four weeks.

What would Mary say when she saw _that_ quote in the _Times_?

Two years. Two years of tracking ghosts and of missing them. He’d finally had a bit of a life, met someone, but the last couple months had been more than she could take. He couldn’t blame her; still, he missed her. 221B was empty again.

 _I can’t compete with the dead, John,_ Mary had said. It meant something, he supposed, that he hadn’t had any defense. There were times—too many to count—when he’d kissed her and thought of Sherlock.

All in all, it was a good day, John thought as they walked through the rain. It didn’t matter whether or not Delaney was convicted, in the end, though the evidence strongly supported his role in the murder. By now England knew what John had known all this time—that Sherlock Holmes had been _real_.

They found seats in the Public Gallery, and Mrs. Hudson squeezed his hand as they waited for court to be brought to session. She’d come every day. ( _For Sherlock. He was such a good boy._ ) Really, that’s why they’d all come—Molly, now Mrs. Lestrade, and Greg, who’d worked tirelessly even when it’d seemed their leads were false. It didn’t matter that the parties in question were dead. It was enough for John to see the odd mixture of disappointment, surprise, and guilt on Donovan and Anderson’s faces.  
   
Funny, John thought, the turn his life had taken since that moment in Lestrade’s office. He’d left that day with an almost pathological sense of purpose, which had only been fueled when his initial inquiry with the Baker Street Irregulars ( _they remembered John, loved Sherlock, missed him_ ) had uncovered a physical description of the suspected murderer. A balding, muscular, middle-aged man wearing a grey trench coat had been spotted leaving the block of flats at three-thirty in the morning, but then had seemingly disappeared into thin air, leaving John frustrated but more determined than ever. The following months of investigation turned up a name: Darragh Delaney. Apparently Delaney had worked at the Whitlock’s Devonshire estate for three years, been sacked six months before Whitlock’s death and, most importantly, fit the eyewitness account.

When Garda finally picked up Delaney in Dublin and searched his apartment on suspicion of illegal firearms, they’d found Whitlock’s mobile, and on it, evidence Moriarty had indeed faked the identity of Richard Brook. Moriarty's _boyfriend_ \--a horrible thought, John had cringed when he'd first heard the reference--had somehow managed to record the most chilling conversation John had ever heard.

 _I want Sherlock Holmes to pay._

 _For what?_   Whitlock had asked, surprisingly calm.

 _For existing._

A smart man, Ralph Whitlock. Maybe he’d finally realized he was sleeping with the devil.

The prosecution had insisted Delaney had been one of Moriarty’s henchmen, charged with offing Whitlock before he could expose the truth, but the defense painted a different picture; they described the incident as a crime of passion and insisted that Delaney and Whitlock had been lovers, the murder committed in a moment of insane, jealous rage. John wasn’t sure what to believe, in the end, only that it was a sordid affair, and one perhaps Sherlock would have deemed _boring._

Combined with the der Betrug forgery, the evidence was enough to clear Sherlock’s name, and the headlines to that effect had been very pleasing indeed. It was all John wanted.

“It’s starting, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, patting his hand and drawing him out of his thoughts. “He doesn’t seem like a nice chap at all, does he?” she whispered, eyes on Delaney. “Not pleasant at all to think of a man like that wandering about the streets.”

“He’ll be convicted, I’m sure of it,” John said. He hoped the jury wouldn’t make a liar of him; he’d been equally sure Moriarty wouldn’t be acquitted, and he’d been wrong.

He could almost hear Sherlock beside him yawning, his brain clamoring for a more exciting case ( _because really, John, I never expected Jim Moriarty to be so_ pedestrian) as the Bailiff called the court to order.

*****

  
The next day, John decided to pay Sherlock a visit.

  
[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/magnolia822/pic/00001f29/)   


  
He’d been so wrapped up in the case he hadn’t been by in months, and was surprised to find a grave so littered with flowers, candles, hideous hats with earflaps, he couldn’t see the ground beneath.

“Hello there,” John said, reaching out to touch the cold marble. His voice sounded too loud in the otherwise quiet cemetery. “It looks like you’ve made yourself some new friends.” He crouched down and fingered a note left in a childish scrawl.

 _Sherlock Holmes. You are my hero._

It brought back the ache that never really vanished, but sometimes temporarily faded. _Sherlock Holmes. How I miss you. How I miss you, you pompous git._

“Delaney got thirty years—it was less than we expected, but at least Mrs. Hudson won’t have to worry about him for a long while. I think the judge believed the tale of the jealous lover.” He sighed and touched the engraving. “I don’t suppose it really matters.”

In the end, Moriarty’s biggest mistake had been something John would never have expected—he’d trusted Ralph Whitlock, perhaps even loved him, as much as a homicidal nutter could love.  It made him almost human despite his inhumane compulsion to generate chaos in the world. That was a fundamental difference between Sherlock and Moriarty, wasn’t it? At the end of the day Sherlock had desired order, to arrange the pieces and explain what they meant, while Moriarty had wanted it all to burn.

“To be honest, I don’t know if I did it for you,” John told the grave, fighting that old emptiness. Oh, he’d still practice medicine, yes, and maybe occasionally consult for Lestrade. But it would never be the same again. He picked listlessly at a flower, eyes burning.

“I once asked you for a miracle . . . for me. Bloody hell, Sherlock, why didn’t you listen?”

Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind, probably another well-wisher come to bring a token. John quickly wiped at his face and stood, irritated at the intrusion; the last thing he wanted was for a stranger to see him cry. He cleared his throat and touched the grave again. _Goodbye._

“I did, John." John stiffened, heart lurching. _It can’t be._ He whirled around, sure the voice had come from his own, apparently deranged, mind.

A man stood before him, a man with raven-black hair, now greying at the temples. A man who was thinner than John remembered, but with the same impossible cheekbones, the same striking blue eyes. They were focused on him now, desolate and hopeful, always assessing.

“It can’t be,” John whispered, voice edged with a touch of hysteria, “You’re dead. This can’t be real.”

“John,” Sherlock said, because it was Sherlock, couldn’t be anyone else, unless John had finally lost it. “Forgive me.”


	7. Part Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AsyaAna for the beta.  
> Part Seven Rating: PG-13

The world tilted, and for a second John felt he might stumble. He reached out for the cane he no longer carried, but then Sherlock was there, holding his arm steady, the scratchy wool of his coat incontrovertible proof of his existence. Perhaps.

“What? I don’t understand,” John managed, still trying to comprehend the fact that Sherlock was touching him, and the touch was strong. _Alive._ The blood drained from his face to his feet in a dizzying rush. He suspected--no, he was sure--he was going to vomit.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice echoed, tinny. The lines around Sherlock’s eyes were new. He must have aged ten years in three, but then so had John. He couldn’t stop staring.

“Please tell me what this is. Because right now I’m feeling more than a bit mad.”

“You’re not mad,” said Sherlock, speaking quickly. “You were in danger and there was no other way, nothing I could have done differently, and I’d do it again if I had to. Luckily I didn’t actually have to kill myself, though I would have, I suppose, in the end.”

“Three years, Sherlock, three bloody years? You’ve been alive all this time and you never reckoned you’d send a note? No, _‘Dear John, I’m shamming dead so you needn’t worry yourself about it, mate. Cheers?”_ He squinted and clenched his hands at his side, resisting the burn in his eyes.

“I _couldn’t._ ”

John blanched. “You _couldn’t_? Why not?” Those long months hit him now, a flood of mourning, grief, and finally, almost—peace. John yanked his arm away, overwhelmed by adrenaline combined with relief, joy, and bitter betrayal. “Oh, sod _off_.”

“I’m sorry; I’m not explaining myself sufficiently. You’re overwhelmed. Perhaps we should go someplace to talk.” Sherlock’s expression lightened with the hint of a smile, though his eyes remained grave. “Baker Street?”

John glared.

“Or somewhere else, if you’d rather.”

Considering the proposition for a moment, John had to stifle a laugh. He truly felt mad, despite Sherlock’s assurance to the contrary. “You’re really alive?” he asked, testing the situation and the limits of his sanity.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, voice strained. “As I’ve ever been. John, it’s so very . . . good to see you.”

John wasn’t sure what happened next. His body, however, seemed very sure. The impact of his fist against Sherlock’s face—his still impossibly beautiful face—shattered the silence around them. Sherlock staggered backwards a pace before straightening and turning his eyes back on John, touching his cheek where the strike had drawn blood. There was no anger, just an inscrutable, maddening acceptance.

John winced at the throb in his hand, felt his fist balling up again.

“Would you like another go?” Sherlock asked evenly.

“You utter dick. I would, actually,” John replied, stepping forward. Sherlock came forward, too, leaving less than a foot between them. He closed his eyes.

“All right.”

John raised his arm a second time, hesitated. The initial rush of anger began to dull, and he found his gaze drawn to the purpling bruise on Sherlock’s cheek, how it matched the shadows under his eyes. Where had he been these long years? Of one thing John was certain; he’d been alone. It was a palpable thing between them.

Without thinking, John leaned forward and pressed his lips against the edge of Sherlock’s jaw—the only place he could reach, really, but it seemed a lovely spot to kiss. Sherlock’s eyes flashed open, unadulterated surprise writ there. It nearly made John chuckle; he’d never seen such an expression and suspected he never would again. He almost expected the impact of a punch himself, but instead was shocked by warm lips against his temple followed by a soft exhalation of breath. Another kiss.

“Where have you been?” John asked, dazed.

“Mostly Eastern Europe, but also South America, Australia.”

“Australia? What ever for?” He wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed at the way his breath hitched, certain Sherlock was cataloguing his physiological responses, could almost hear his brain churning. But Sherlock didn’t move away.

“Moriarty presented me with a choice that wasn’t a choice—either declare myself a fraud and end my life in disgrace or you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson would be killed. If I didn’t jump, he would have phoned the assassins he’d hired, and once he was dead there was only one way to call them off.”

“But you--after, you--” His mind was running in a furious loop, not quite processing. “Why didn’t you . . . Jesus, you could have phoned, left a message. I would have kept it secret, you know I would.”

“If they’d learned I was still alive you would have been instantly killed. I couldn’t take that risk, even if it meant—“

“Lying to me.”

“Yes.”

“Making everyone believe—”

“As I said,” Sherlock said, “it wasn’t a choice. I’d rather be haunted by your hate than your death.”

John’s next protest caught in his throat, expired there. There were warm hands on his shoulders.

“But how could you have survived? I saw you. I felt your pulse . . . you were gone.” As a rational man he’d always trusted the evidence of his senses, and he’d held Sherlock’s lifeless hand, seen the blood pooled around his head. His own body had lurched sickly as if he, too, were falling.

The wind had picked up, ruffling Sherlock’s hair as he looked down. “I’ll tell you everything. But for now, let’s say I had a bit of help making my suicide appear realistic.”

John barked out a hollow laugh. “Realistic, Sherlock--it was hellish. And you made me watch. Why?” He knew the answer to his question as soon as he’d uttered it. It had been to make him _believe_ \--for him as much as it had been for the assassins. To protect him and to break his heart.

“I wish there had been another way.” Though the statement was honest, the blue eyes showed more determination than regret. Sherlock was saying what he thought John wanted to hear, but he truly believed in what he’d done, perhaps even was proud of it.

“But you say you had help, so that means there’s someone out there who knew you were alive. Who was it? Mycroft? Lestrade? It was bloody Lestrade, wasn’t it?”

In answer, Sherlock dug his fingers into John’s shoulders, eyes glowing with their familiar-strange intensity. “Lestrade was at risk, too. Don’t you understand? You all had to believe or the illusion would never have worked. You’re stubborn, the lot of you--especially you. You would have tried to find me. I couldn’t allow the risk.”

“I don’t like this. You make me feel like a pawn in the game.”

“You were.”

“Fantastic,” John muttered. Always the game, always the most important thing.

He tried to pull away and found it fruitless, as Sherlock’s grip was strong and his own impulse to flee weak, at best.

“It was Moriarty’s game, John. I didn’t enjoy it.”

“You always enjoy it.”

“Not this time,” Sherlock snapped, eyes darting wildly. “Do you think I enjoyed being so . . . I may have enjoyed the tracking, yes, but I don’t _enjoy_ killing, even when it’s necessary.” Now Sherlock did release him, an action John immediately resented. It was like being too far away, miles between them instead of mere feet. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recognized Sherlock’s sacrifice and the sheer brilliance of it all, but he felt too raw to be charitable.

No longer motionless, Sherlock strode a short distance before turning on his heel and circling back, steepling his hands against his chin. What a tableau they must make, formerly deceased detective and bachelor John Watson arguing in front of the latter’s grave. Luckily the cemetery was still empty, the sky threatening rain and making it likely to stay that way.

John sighed. “So, you were successful,” he offered to stop the pacing.

“As of last week, yes.” Despite the situation, a note of pleasure had crept into Sherlock’s voice. John didn’t know whether to hit him again or to feel gratified his friend hadn’t changed.

“And you followed me here.”

“Yes, I’ve been following you for some days now.”

“Hmm. Not sure how I feel about being stalked. It’s a bit dodgy, isn’t it?” John said, but there was something oddly endearing about the situation--he knew Sherlock had been waiting for the right moment, nervous about John’s reaction.

“A bit,” he admitted.

John rolled his eyes. “It sounds as though you’ve been busy. I’m surprised you’ve got time for stalking.”

This elicited a laugh, and even John gave a begrudging smile.

“Busier than usual. Then again, so have you.” Sherlock paused, tilting his head. “Thank you, by the way, for defending me.” John could hear the implied _in spite of the fact I told you not to._

“Nothing to it, really.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Yes, well,” John said, feeling exposed under the critical gaze. For a moment, he tried to view himself objectively. A middle-aged man, rounder through the midsection than he’d been, perhaps with more lines about the face as well. What did Sherlock see? A friend. Something more? John didn’t know, didn’t understand what the kiss had meant, if anything. Sherlock certainly wasn’t being very forthcoming, but he was staring at John as if he were an absorbing puzzle.

“Did you mean what you said in the papers?” Sherlock asked, stepping closer. John’s face heated as he remembered his perhaps too-hasty proclamation, though, of course, it could have been interpreted in several ways. Sherlock had undoubtedly considered them all.

“Of course, you _would_ have read the papers.”

“Evading the question. You should know better by now.”

 _Be brave_ , John thought to himself. He straightened his shoulders and looked squarely at the man he thought he’d never see again. “Of course I meant it.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as if he’d seen a ghost, as if he’d been the one living these years thinking John dead and now come back. Before John could think to retract the statement or make a joke of it, Sherlock’s arms folded around him and he found himself bearing the brunt of his friend’s not inconsiderable weight.

“I’m so tired,” Sherlock said, almost whispering. He sounded ashamed.

“Well, then,” John replied, “let’s go home.”


	8. Part Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere along the line this stopped being a drabble and started being a proper story. Thanks to Asya_Ana for the beta and Im_not_a_lizard for the Britpick!

Sherlock’s reappearance had been met with a startling array of responses from those closest to him. Mycroft had shaken his brother’s hand and nodded as if he’d expected the thing all along. Mrs. Hudson had screamed, then fainted; Lestrade had gone white as a sheet and then collapsed in a fit of hysterical laughter; Molly had simply blushed and smiled. It was only later that John realized why her response had been so calm. She’d been the one to fake Sherlock’s death certificate and provide him with a body to fill his grave. That knowledge rankled John, as it did Lestrade, who’d never learned his new wife’s secret. In the end, though, John couldn’t blame Molly; she’d helped Sherlock and been loyal to him, and that was the most important thing.  
  
“Molly and Lestrade,” said Sherlock that evening after they’d all left. “I suppose it makes sense.”  
  
“How so?” John asked, taking the bait.  
  
Sherlock moved from the doorway where he was standing to his chair opposite John’s. “She’s thirty-one, never married, obviously reaching the critical age where a woman considers children and grows nervous if she’s unattached. Lestrade, recently divorced, first wife was a bad match, but yet he’s grown dependent on having a relationship, can’t iron a shirt without burning a hole in it.”  
  
“Neither can you,” John pointed out.  
  
Sherlock arched his eyebrow and continued. “Two lonely, emotionally needy people, both available, both of a similar level of physical attractiveness, thrown together in work-related contexts--it was bound to happen sooner or later. I’m only surprised it took this long.”  
  
“You don’t think it had anything to do with love?” John felt twitchy. He leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance.    
  
Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head.     
  
“Right. Well, I’m off to bed,” John said. His knee twinged a little as he stood but he shook it off, not bothering to look back as he made his way toward the stairs.    
  
The month that followed was the most surreal of John’s life. Every reporter in Britain wanted the scoop on the _Return of Sherlock Holmes_ and would stop at nothing to get it; they camped outside the flat, followed John and Sherlock wherever they went (together or alone), peered into windows trying to glimpse the newly reincarnated detective and his live-in _companion_.  
  
When Sherlock had finally made a statement, (of course excluding the details of his three years tracking and killing Moriarty’s hired assassins), he solidified his status as legend. People wanted autographs (sometimes on questionable body parts), photographs of Sherlock holding their children, of Sherlock and John together--their relationship was widely speculated upon, had been since John’s statement during the trial. They were presumed to be a couple, an assumption that neither of them confirmed nor denied. Sherlock didn’t even appear to hear when such queries were put forward; he’d simply look past the questioner or over their heads so that the inquisitive reporters and fans turned to John, who’d feel his face flame, mumble out a _no comment_ , and hasten away.  
  
John wasn’t completely sure where he stood with Sherlock, either.  There had been no repeat of the closeness at the graveyard, except once in the middle of the night when he’d gotten up to use the loo and run into Sherlock just outside. Sherlock had murmured something unintelligible and leaned down to brush a soft kiss against John’s forehead as if he were a child before retiring to his room and shutting the door. John hadn’t slept at all the rest of the night.  
  
It was odd, sharing the flat again. Some mornings John woke in a sweat, sure it had all been a dream--that Sherlock was truly dead and his subconscious had played a terrible trick on him. But then he’d come downstairs and there Sherlock would be, bent over his microscope or restringing the bow to his violin, arranging belongings that had been neatly packed away for years. Sherlock would raise his head and smile--a genuinely breathtaking sight--when John came in, and then go back to whatever he was doing, unaware that John’s frantic heartbeat calmed only once he had watched Sherlock for some minutes to make sure he was truly there.    
  
After his initial feelings of anger had subsided, John found himself needing Sherlock, and it was not at all a pleasant state, but it was also the most precious, lovely thing.  He greedily catalogued things that used to annoy him--the way Sherlock’s hands were constantly busy, his imperious tone when he wanted something _done now_.  
  
Sometimes John would catch Sherlock watching him, too, as if he couldn’t quite accept John were real--and in those moments he thought maybe they could be what everyone (even Molly and Lestrade) already believed. But then Sherlock would glance away, looking troubled, and John would restrain the hesitant, tentative beginnings of hope.  
  
John had never really pined for love and he wasn’t about to start now. Yes, he’d mourned when he thought Sherlock was dead, but now that he had his friend back he would be happy no matter what, he determined. And in any case, there was no time for pining.  
  
Before the first week was out Sherlock was back consulting on private cases and assisting Scotland Yard, much to the irritation of Anderson and Donovan, who were now not only humiliated but also forced to be cordial. Sherlock took sadistic delight in asking one or the other of them to fetch him a coffee, which he very rarely drank. John suspected the drinks had been spat into with regularity.  
  
It soon became clear, however, that Sherlock’s newfound celebrity--a hundred times worse than it had been after he had been dubbed the Reichenbach hero--was a serious problem. His new coterie of bloodthirsty media-types and ardent fans (who dubbed themselves Sherlockians) accosted him at crime scenes and blew his cover when he didn’t want to be recognized. John swiftly grew irritated, finding himself resentful of his position as bodyguard and handler, especially when so many people _wanted_ Sherlock. Not that the detective noticed or was interested in any of them. Or _him_ , it was becoming increasingly clear.  
  
“It’ll all wind down soon,” Lestrade told them one afternoon after a particularly sensitive crime scene had been discovered by a legion of over-excited fans wearing deerstalkers. “Until then, it’s best you probably don’t come ‘round to scenes. We can’t afford evidence being tampered with or contaminated. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be.”  
  
John held his breath, waiting for the explosion, but Sherlock just smiled his normal people smile.  
  
“Greg,” he said, “surely you don’t mean to allow a few inconsequential, easily ignorable fools to impede the efficacy of critical investigations.”  
  
Lestrade’s obvious shock at Sherlock using his given name yielded to a knowing smirk. He was one of the few people who knew Sherlock enough to understand when he was being played.  
  
“A few? Seems more like hundreds, to me. And that’s exactly what I’m trying to prevent. You know we can’t afford this kind of distraction, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock sighed, exasperated. “Yes, I know. And you and I _both_ know that my being here five minutes is worth weeks of time of your other . . . _detectives_.” He pronounced the word like a disease, casting a dismissive glance toward the rest of Lestrade’s team. Donovan thrust out her hip and crossed her arms, shooting Sherlock a deadly look.  
  
“Yes, but I’m getting pressure from above. It’s a circus down here, and it doesn’t help anyone, especially the victims. It’s not forever; just until the interest wears off. You have my word.”    
  
“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to resist such pressure, Inspector,” Sherlock replied coldly, before pivoting on his heel and striding off. Lestrade shrugged and gave John a helpless look, which John returned before hastening to catch up with his friend. There had been something else beside anger and disdain in Sherlock’s eyes, an emotion even more disturbing--fear.  
  
“We can still do private cases,” John said once they’d returned to Baker Street. Sherlock was already pacing, and John gave him ten minutes before he began shooting the walls.  
  
“No, I can’t. I can’t. This,” he replied, sweeping his arms wide, “I can’t think. I can’t concentrate with so many people about. Such _noise_! Why won’t they let me be?”  
  
John snorted, settling down in his chair. “You’re not seriously asking that question, are you?”  
  
“Of course I’m serious.”  
  
“Reichenbach hero returned from the dead? Please tell me you’ve noted the Christ reference.”  
  
“I’m not Christ. An utterly ridiculous story dreamed up by prelates to inspire blind belief; even so, he had the help of divine intervention with his resurrection!” Sherlock was a flurry of barely controlled movement, and John couldn’t stop himself from noticing how he’d begun to fill out again. He’d returned so thin--already he looked healthier, younger. Bloody gorgeous, the frustrating git.  
  
“Yeah, probably best for you to keep your thoughts on religion to yourself. But the fact remains they’re _interested_. They’re inspired by you, Sherlock. You should be flattered.”  
  
Sherlock threw himself down onto the couch, flinging his arm across his face. He sighed.  
“How tedious. I’m not inspired by them!”  
  
John could only chuckle. “Yes, I know. But Lestrade’s right; this madness will pass. We just have to figure a way to get around in the meanwhile. False moustaches?”  
  
“I am not wearing a moustache, John, false or otherwise,” came the muffled reply.  
  
“Suit yourself,” John said, picking up the sport section of the Times, “but I think you’d look fit.”  
  
He hadn’t meant to flirt, but Sherlock lowered his arm and turned his head to regard John curiously. “I would look abominable.”  
  
“I don’t think you could ever look abominable.” John looked quickly away from where his eyes had latched--Sherlock’s unbuttoned collar and exposed neck, long and pale and more beautiful than any woman’s--and tried to read, only to find himself repeatedly glossing over the same sentence. He could feel himself under the microscope, and just now it wasn’t a particularly comfortable place to be.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”  
  
“Don’t.” John held up his hand. The last thing he wanted to hear was some sodding _it’s not you it’s me_ speech from Sherlock bloody Holmes. He stood up and folded the paper neatly, setting it down on the end table.  
  
Unfortunately, before he could make a hasty retreat, Sherlock rose and stalked over to him. It was one of the most maddening things he did--this invasion of personal space at the most unnerving moments. John stiffened and took a step back, but he was still close enough to see the fine, permanent lines between Sherlock’s brows. Too much frowning, he supposed.    
  
“I’ve seen you watching me,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Then I suppose you’re watching me as well,” John replied, cocking his head in challenge.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
John didn’t exactly know what to do with that piece of information.  
  
“I don’t,” Sherlock said, looking as ill at ease as John had ever seen. “I don’t have sex,” he finally got out.  
  
Too shocked to be embarrassed, John set his jaw. “Yes, I know.” Then, curiosity growing too great, he added, “Have you ever?”  
  
Sherlock focused him with inscrutable expression. “No.”  
  
The information, though he’d long suspected it, made John’s head swim. It was a crime, he thought, worse than a gruesome murder.  
  
He certainly didn’t expect what happened next. Sherlock leaned forward and seized him by the shoulders, his eyes narrowing to slits. Before John could say a word, he was being kissed, a chaste but maddening press of lips against lips. He froze, afraid if he moved or participated he’d drive Sherlock away, and instead concentrated on memorizing the moment, how _warm_ it was. In an instant John was furiously, hopelessly aroused. And then he was released.  
  
“Goodnight,” Sherlock said. By the time John had recovered his voice to reply, Sherlock was already gone.  
  
The next morning, the tension in the flat was too much to bear. Sherlock was the one to break the silence.  
  
“You should take a lover,” he said, as easily as if he’d asked to pass the cream. John sputtered into his coffee.  
  
“A lover? I’m sorry, did I wake up in the nineteenth century?”  
  
Sherlock didn’t seem fazed. His eyes never left the page of the book he was reading. “Fine, a girlfriend, whatever you like.”  
  
“Hmm. Very nice of you to give me permission,” John said, unable to hold back the sarcasm. Again, it seemed to have fallen on frustratingly deaf ears.  
  
“You should,” Sherlock said.  
  
John didn’t want to think about taking _a lover_ , but nor did he wish to remain celibate for the rest of his life. He frowned, and later left for the clinic with a determination to ask one of the pretty new nurses out on a date.  
  
He and Laura went out a few times but nothing came of it. Next came Cynthia. Bridget. John dated several more women, but he never got off with them. Sherlock didn’t know that, of course; he never asked. Occasionally he’d make a snide comment, but that was how it’d always been, even before what the papers now termed the Reichenbach fall. John didn’t imagine he was jealous.  
  
But the troubling fact remained that John didn’t want to sleep with any of the woman he dated. At first he considered maybe he was abstaining out of loyalty, despite Sherlock’s nonchalance. While that certainly was a factor, John realized, surprised, it was not a feminine touch he craved.  
  
He wanted a man.


	9. Part Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AsyaAna for betaing and to im_not_a_lizard for the Britpick.

There was a technician who worked in the lab at the clinic--a good-looking chap named David about John’s age. Though he’d been there for nearly a year now, John had never exchanged more than a few minutes conversation with him, either dropping off or picking up patient test results, but he knew from clinic gossip that David had recently broken up with his boyfriend.  
  
A couple of weeks after John’s latest dating disaster, he ran into David in the narrow corridor outside the lab, and the two of them faced off in that awkward mirror-image, _after you, no, after you_ , dance. It didn’t escape John’s notice that the man gave him a rather more than friendly smile before they finally made their way around each other. He went back to his office feeling uneasy. Sherlock hadn’t mentioned their kiss in weeks, and so why not go out with a bloke like David to see where his fantasies about hard jawlines and stubble might lead?  
  
The next day, feeling a bit adventurous, John asked David to have coffee after work. He seemed surprised.  
  
“If you’d rather not, that’s . . . fine,” said John. He thrust his hands into his pockets and fought a self-directed eye-roll.  
  
“No, no, no!” David said, his eyes widening, “I’m just surprised.”  
  
John sighed. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”  
  
David gave John a flirtatious grin. “I think it’s a wonderful idea. I’d love to have coffee with you, Doctor Watson.” His smile was contagious; John returned it despite the unsettled feeling in his gut.  
  
It turned out that John had no reason to be nervous. They got on much better than he’d expected; David was gracious despite John’s initial awkwardness, which faded when he realized the other man’s expectations were low. All in all, it was a pleasant way to spend the evening, and when David asked if he’d like to have a proper date on the weekend, John didn’t hesitate to say yes.  
  
“You’re late,” Sherlock said when John got home. He was standing in the middle of the sitting room wearing a visor, a pair of strange-looking trousers, a welding apron and, to cap it off, holding a lit match to his leg.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
Sherlock straightened and shook the match out with a flourish, dropping it into the wastebin, where John hoped there were no flammable materials. He lifted the rim of the visor so John could see his face properly. He looked elated.  
  
“Blacksmith found near Lambeth Hill, completely incinerated, shop left mostly untouched. Scotland Yard is calling it an accident, but I think it’s peculiar, don’t you, when the man’s entire wardrobe consisted of flame retardant clothing? A man considered a master of his craft for twenty-odd years?”  
  
John sighed and unwrapped his scarf, kicking off his trainers.  
  
“I thought you were staying away from crime scenes for now? Did Lestrade ring?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head and picked up a problematic-looking propane gas burner. “No, he didn’t, and I haven’t been to the scene. That doesn’t mean I can’t easily discover what’s going on.”  
  
“Ahh,” said John, watching with some alarm as Sherlock turned the rim of the visor back down and lit the torch. “Not sure those are supposed to be used indoors. Next to papers. And furniture. And . . . legs.” He spoke loudly to drown out the sound of the flame, and Sherlock looked up, his exasperated expression rendered harmless by the ridiculous get-up.  
  
“John--”  
  
“There has to be a better way to do this than to risk burning my favourite--chair,” John said, relieved he’d caught himself before saying something he’d regret.  
  
Sherlock extinguished the burner and removed the visor completely. John stifled a laugh at the way his hair stood up at all angles, clenching his hand against his side to quell the itch to fix it.  
  
“I don’t think it would be an atrocity to destroy such an ugly thing.” Sherlock motioned towards John’s chair, but his intense gaze was boring a hole into John’s skull. How had they come to be standing so close together?  
  
“Actually, it would. It may be ugly, but I’m quite fond of it,” John replied, moving around his friend to sit on the object in question. “Burn yours if you’re looking to torch something. Outside, preferably.”  
  
“You didn’t answer my question before. Why you were late?” Sherlock began divesting himself of the apron, turning away to lay it down.  
  
“I got coffee with a colleague,” John replied. In fact, he’d completely forgotten about David as soon as he’d arrived home. And that was not a particularly good sign. He scrubbed his hands over his face.  
  
“A date?”  
  
“If you like. Why would anyone want to murder a blacksmith?”  John asked.  
  
“She must be different.” Sherlock was buzzing frenetically about the flat, sorting through papers on his desk, tapping a few notations on his computer.    
  
“I thought the blacksmith was a man,” John joked.  
  
“Your date. Your coffee date.”  
  
“Why do you say she’s different?”  
  
Sherlock whirled around and clasped his hands under his chin. His hair was in all manner of disarray. John wondered if he should point it out, but thought not. It was endearing.     
  
“Because you’re so very eager to change the subject,” Sherlock said.  
  
“You deduced that, did you?”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “A blind geriatric could deduce it. Anyway, good. Good.”  
  
That was all that was said on the subject until the weekend arrived and John found himself burrowing through his closet to find something suitable to wear. This was dinner--a genuine date. He wasn’t sure where they were going, but figured a cable jumper probably wasn’t fashionable enough. Finally, shrugging, he pulled the tag off a button down shirt Harry had given him last Christmas and pulled it on, checking himself in the mirror. He nodded.  
  
“You’re wearing _that_ ,” Sherlock said when John came downstairs. John glanced down. It wasn’t much different from the well-tailored shirts Sherlock himself was fond of, so he couldn’t quite account for the note of disdain in his friend’s voice.    
  
“Apparently so.”  
  
“Ah, confirmation,” Sherlock replied.  
  
“What?” John asked.  
  
“Nothing, nothing. Have fun.”  
  
John left Baker Street feeling a bit grim.  
  
He met David at a pub to get a pint before dinner, pleased at how quickly they fell into conversation. David had worked in the Middle East after college, and it turned out they even knew a few of the same people. He had a keen sense of humor, much less acerbic than Sherlock’s, but still very witty and, best of all, he was a good listener. It was nice for things to be so easy, John thought, very nice indeed. At the end of the night they shared a taxi and David walked him to the door while his ride idled.  
  
“I had a great time, John,” said David. It had begun to snow and the flakes caught in David’s dark, wavy hair.  
  
“Me too.”  
  
“We’ll have to do it again sometime.”  
  
“I’d like that.”  
  
John thought they might kiss, finding himself oddly disappointed when they didn’t. Oddly, because until now he hadn’t realized he was attracted to David. Why shouldn’t he be? They shook hands and John waved as the taxi pulled away.  
  
Sherlock was still awake when John entered the flat.  
  
“That was a man,” Sherlock said, his voice quiet. He was pacing.  
  
“It was David, yes, from the clinic.”  
  
“Works in the lab, does he?”  
  
“Yes.” John divested himself of his coat and hung it up on the rack. “I’m not even going to ask how you know that.”  
  
“You don’t date men,” Sherlock declared, as if it was a truth universally acknowledged.  
  
“I didn’t. Before. Now maybe I do, sometimes.”  
  
“Hmm . . .” Sherlock clasped his hands together and looked at John appraisingly.  A glint of something appeared in his eyes, making John shake his head.  
  
“No. No. I’m not doing it make you jealous, if that’s what you’re thinking.”  
  
“Oh, aren’t you?”  
  
“Don’t flatter yourself,” John said. “He’s a nice bloke.”  
  
“Nice. A euphemism for boring.”  
  
“He’s not boring.” Then John laughed. “This bothers you, doesn’t it. It bothers you I’m dating a man.”  
  
“It does not _bother_ me,” Sherlock said, irritated. “It’s fine. Better than fine.”  
  
“Excellent, then,” John said. “I’m knackered. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Sherlock said again as John turned to make his way up the stairs. He could still hear Sherlock pacing below.


	10. Part Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AsyaAna for the beta. This chapter is rated R.

  
On their fifth date, David got tickets to a show. They had dinner and then headed to the National Theatre for a performance of _Frankenstein_ , which had gotten fantastic reviews and had been sold out for weeks. Halfway through the first act, John found himself holding David’s hand. It inspired a mixture of emotions--longing, since he couldn’t imagine this kind of public intimacy with Sherlock, contentment, because it felt nice to be close to someone, and, with the way David was slowly rubbing circles on the back of his hand with his thumb, the beginning sparks of lust. Nothing had happened yet between them other than some exploratory kisses, but John had a feeling perhaps tonight something else would. He wasn’t sure he was ready.  
  
Things at Baker Street had been tense, but Sherlock hadn’t asked John about David again, and John didn’t have it in him to mention it. It was probably for the best; still, John could feel it driving a wedge between them, interfering with the tentative intimacy they’d established since Sherlock’s return. He hated that almost as much as he hated how Sherlock was never far from his thoughts, even while in the theatre with an attractive, available and, most importantly, _interested_ man.  
  
That night when the taxi pulled up to let John out, David turned to him and kissed him--a real kiss with tongue and mouths together. It was soft, much softer than John had imagined. He returned it, not sure why he ached when it felt good.    
  
“You can always come back to mine,” David said, offering a hesitant smile when he pulled away. With that look, John’s stomach lurched--it wasn’t the prospect of sex that frightened him, no, it was the thought of Sherlock waiting up for him, peering down at the taxi expectantly, and then watching it pull away with John still inside. David obviously saw the panic on his face before he could hide it.  
  
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to rush you. I know this is a new thing for you, dating men. But I really like you, John. I want you to know that.”  
  
“Thanks. I . . . I like you as well. It’s just, I don’t think I’m--”  
  
“It’s him, isn’t it?”  
  
“Him?” John asked, confused.  
  
“He’s all you talk about,” David said with a rueful smile, cocking his head towards the upstairs flat. “I don’t even think you notice.”  
  
“It isn’t like that.” John couldn’t find the words to explain what it was like. “He doesn’t . . .”  
  
David shook his head and squeezed John’s thigh where his hand rested. “I understand. Or, at least I think I do.”  
  
John laughed. “That makes one of us, then.” By now the taxi driver was giving them looks and clearing his throat, not so subtly making his intention known.  
  
“I’m sorry,” David said, withdrawing his hand. John instantly felt the loss, because he knew what this meant, and really, David deserved better. “They say Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant man, a genius, but I think he’s rather stupid.”  
  
“About some things,” John agreed.  
  
“Well, you should know you’re quite a catch, Doctor Watson. I hope you do.”  
  
John flushed, grateful for the darkness of the cab. It was quite lovely, being wanted. And there was a certain devastation knowing he could never want the man in front of him the way he wanted Sherlock.  
  
“If you ever decide you want to give this another go,” David said, gesturing between them, “call me.”  
  
“I will,” said John, and he meant it.  
  
The lights were out in the flat when John unlatched the door, and at first he thought Sherlock was asleep. He took off his coat and hung it, bending down to unlace his dress shoes.  
  
“You’re home rather early,” came a voice from the darkness. John nearly jumped out of his skin.  
  
“Jesus! Sherlock! Bloody hell.” Squinting, he could just make out Sherlock’s supine form on the thinking couch. “Why are you laying about in the dark? You just about gave me a heart attack.”  
  
“Apologies.”  
  
John flipped the switch and let his eyes adjust. Sherlock had sat up in the meantime, his blue robe untied and displaying the tee underneath. John never got used to this--there was something about Sherlock in flannel and white cotton that was so vulnerable, human.  
  
“How was the show?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“How do you know we went to a show?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  
  
“You didn’t follow us, did you?”  
  
Another shrug. Sherlock drew his legs up against his chest and leaned back on the couch.  
  
“Sherlock--”  
  
“What does it matter how I knew?”  
  
“It matters because it’s dodgy for you to be following me on a date, if that’s what you did. Or calling the theatre, or sending someone else to follow me.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Stop blabbering. I didn’t follow you.”  
  
“Then how did you . . .”  
  
Sherlock stood up and strode toward him, leaning down to snatch something off the floor. He held it up. “You dropped this.”  
  
It was the ticket stub. He reached out to take it back, but Sherlock held it firm. John couldn’t think about anything but the place where their fingers touched. He pulled harder, so did Sherlock. The stupid thing ripped in two. John looked at the ridiculous piece in his hand.  
  
“I’m going to bed,” he said, dropping it.  
  
Sherlock reached out and held his arm. “I don’t want you to have sex with that man.”  
  
“With David.”  
  
“His name is irrelevant.”  
  
“Irrelevant? Sherlock, he’s a colleague and a friend, and I happen to enjoy his company.” He didn’t bother to mention that he wouldn’t be shagging David any time soon, too irritated at Sherlock’s presumption--his assurance that John would obey his commands like some sort of dog.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes flashed. “Have you, John, _enjoyed_ his company?” The intimation was clear, but instead of brushing him off, annoyed, something not quite right about Sherlock’s expression made John lean closer. His blue eyes were nearly black, so blown were the pupils.  
  
John sighed, his heart twinging. “Are you on drugs?”  
  
“ _A_ drug, singular.”  
  
“Which?”  
  
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Simply opium. It’s no matter.”  
  
“Opium?” A depressant, opium wasn’t exactly Sherlock’s favored brand of poison. John knew enough from Mycroft to look out for harder drugs, particularly cocaine. In the time they’d known each other, Sherlock had only relapsed once, and that had been early on.  
  
“I’ve been so bored,” Sherlock said. “Everything is so boring.” He leaned forward, a sudden proximity that had John’s heart racing.  
  
“I know, but--” John started to say, but before he could get the sentence out Sherlock took his mouth in a possessive, bruising kiss. It was nothing like the one they’d shared before, nothing like David. John gasped, but then Sherlock was there, tongue and teeth and lips that were just as likely to devour him as kiss him.  
  
“Everything but you,” Sherlock whispered, breath hot on John’s face. He smelt of tea and faint traces of incense--the opium. “You’re not boring.”  
  
John repressed the beginnings of hysterical laughter; his body was responding though his mind had not quite caught up. “Are you mad?”  
  
“Yes, yes, I think I am. I want the things that are mine, the things that belong to me,” Sherlock panted as his hands scrabbled against John’s chest. They burned through the fabric.  
  
“I don’t understand,” John managed, very aware of Sherlock’s hands slipping underneath his shirt. He found himself pressed against the wall, a very agitated, breathy Sherlock at his neck.  
  
“What do you talk about with him--with that man? Do you talk about what you love? What about the things you hate?”  
  
John’s head knocked back against the wall, a dull pain rendered insignificant when Sherlock’s fingers dragged along the waist of his trousers, gently teasing. His mouth was doing ridiculous, incredible things. It seemed unbelievable he’d never been with anyone before.  
  
“I don’t want you to talk with him,” Sherlock said, the words muffled by his mouth against skin, “I don’t want you to see him. Say you won’t.”  
  
“Sherlock, don’t,” John protested, but it was weak even to his own ears. He clenched his eyes shut, desire overrunning every coherent thought when he felt Sherlock _hard_ against his hip. It went deep, his longing, punching him in the gut and stealing his breath. Still, something was niggling his mind. “I don’t understand what this means. You need to . . .”  
  
“ _I_ don’t understand,” Sherlock said, smacking his hands on the wall. His lips were red, swollen, and certifiably indecent, but his eyes were raging. “I don’t understand these . . . these . . . _feelings_ ,” he spat out, like the word had dirtied his tongue. “I don’t want him touching you. In the taxi, did he touch you?” He thumbed John’s mouth. “Is this the way you taste or is this his taste on you? Tell me. I need to know.”  
  
“Stop it,” John said, angry now, pushing away the hand. “Just stop. I see what this is. For a second, just a second, I thought maybe you’d . . . no, I see what this is. I don’t want any part of it.” He shoved off from the wall, more furious than the day when Donovan had first accused Sherlock of being a fraud. But Sherlock wouldn’t let him pass. He leaned down and sucked at the tender flesh of John’s neck where he’d probably already left a bruise. It was enough to try the will of a saint, and John wasn’t a saint.  
  
“This isn’t about owning, Sherlock,” John said, words coming in hitches. “I’m not your property. That’s not how people . . .” Love, he was going to say, but stopped short. He couldn’t say love because it would rip the very heart out of him.  
  
“I can’t help it. It’s all I can do not to tie you down and make you stay here with me, only me. It’s all I can do not to hunt down that man--”  
  
“David.”  
  
“Never say his name again,” Sherlock growled, “ever.”  
  
“You only want this because you’re jealous.” The evidence pressing against John’s pelvis said differently, but somehow it was his job to be the responsible one. Sherlock was bored--he was desperate--he was _high_. Remembering that had John sighing. His own erection was completely uninterested in being prudent.  
  
Sherlock murmured against his jaw. “Would you really deny me?”  
  
“If I thought this was just a one-off, yeah.” John couldn’t even believe he’d managed a complete thought, not when his hands had found their home in the nest of Sherlock’s hair and the taller man was grinding against him, leaving no doubt as to his intent. “I should probably tell you that David and I called it off.”  
  
Something must have gotten through to Sherlock, then. He lifted his head and took John’s face between his hands.  
  
“It’s true? You’ll never see him again?”  
  
John rolled his eyes. “At the clinic, and maybe as a friend. But not otherwise, no.”  
  
Sherlock’s brows drew together and for a terrible moment John knew-- _knew_ \--that this development would put an end to whatever was happening between them. But then Sherlock kissed him again.  
  
“When I was away, tracking those assassins . . . I only did it for you. For you, John.”  
  
John couldn’t swallow the lump in his throat. “Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade, they were in danger, too.”  
   
“Yes, yes.” Sherlock’s tone was a little too dismissive for John’s liking. “But you were the one I thought of. The only one I came back for.”  
  
“That’s a bit not. . .”  
  
“I don’t care whether it’s good or not,” Sherlock said, nipping at John’s lower lip. “Please don’t make me say things I can’t say.”  
  
John didn’t know when it happened, but somehow he gave up resisting. He kissed Sherlock back with an eagerness he’d never felt before, and this time when Sherlock asked for more with the press and pull of his body, he said yes.  
  
They wound up tangled in the sheets of Sherlock’s wide bed, John’s trousers around his ankles a hindrance to be kicked off, Sherlock’s robe and pajamas discarded somewhere on the floor.  
  
It was dark, but Sherlock was pale in the darkness, all long limbs and impossible angles. Just a smattering of soft, dark hair on his chest. John kissed along his magnificent collarbone and sucked his own bruise into the skin there, trying not to imagine the repercussions of this moment.  
  
“Are you mine, John?” Sherlock’s voice was dangerous in his ear. John groaned as Sherlock gripped his erection, moving his hand in inquisitive, slow strokes. They were facing each other side by side, and John decided that he could die right now--in fact was very close to dying--with Sherlock’s eyes latched onto him as if he were the most brilliant mystery.  
  
“Yes, fucking yes.” He bit his lip to keep from coming, letting his own hands travel over skin he’d coveted for so long. Sherlock’s stomach quivered under his fingers. Ticklish. It almost made John smirk, but Sherlock’s lips were parted, his breath heavy--and he was so, so hard when John finally stopped teasing and fisted Sherlock’s cock.  
  
Neither of them spoke then. It was a marvel, something incredibly precious, and he couldn’t precisely comprehend _why_ Sherlock was letting John touch him when he’d never let anyone else, wasn’t sure he really wanted to know all the reasons. He realized at some point that Sherlock’s own hand had stopped moving over him and was now gripping his thigh, but it didn’t matter because Sherlock was breathing quietly and fighting the move of his hips. It made John think that maybe Sherlock really _did_ want this, want _him_ , so John smiled and kissed him again, moving closer to draw their cocks together.  
  
So strange, the feel of another man’s flesh against his, but so incredibly good. John quickened his fumbling movements and let himself be enveloped until Sherlock shuddered, his spill slick between them. That was enough for John. But it was Sherlock’s face, eyes screwed shut, fighting for control of his pleasure at its peak that made John come, burying his face into Sherlock’s neck with an embarrassing moan. He kissed the divot there, surprised when Sherlock’s hand joined his around their softening, too-sensitive cocks. To have this after lost years and months--John grit his teeth and fought the urge to say things like love.  
  
When he’d finally regained some semblance of sanity, he chanced a glance at Sherlock. The other man was staring into the distance, a troubled look on his face. John felt as though he’d been kicked.  
  
He reached for some tissues to clean himself off, and was just about search for his pants and head back to his room when Sherlock grabbed his wrist.  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
“Um,” said John. “To sleep?”  
  
“You can sleep here,” Sherlock said, his tone matter-of-fact.  
  
John cocked his head and squinted, trying to determine Sherlock’s expression in the darkness. It was impossible. “That's a very compelling invitation,” John replied dryly.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said as he started to go. “I would _like_ you . . . to stay.”    
  
It was impossible to ignore how the words cost him, how painful they were to say. That’s how John knew they were true. He only hesitated a moment.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
But John didn’t sleep at all that night. How could he with Sherlock’s brilliant, mad, much-loved head on his chest?


	11. Part Eleven

After drifting into a fitful sleep just before dawn, John awoke in the morning, alone. Sherlock’s sheets were still rumpled from the previous evening’s activities. John’s head buzzed as it all came rushing back. Sherlock’s blue eyes, black from the opium. _Are you mine, John?_ And then that moment when he’d thought it best to leave rather than face the inevitable regret, but Sherlock had wanted him to stay.

  
John scratched his head and sighed, swinging his legs around the side of the bed and groping on the floor for his pants and trousers. He would almost have suspect it had been a dream if not for the fact he was starkers. The troubling fact remained that he had no idea how Sherlock would react today. _Bloody hell,_ John thought. _Sherlock hadn’t even been_ sober.  
  
Once he’d pulled on his clothes, he decided to meet the awkwardness head on. Bugger it, he was veteran and had faced more daunting opponents than Sherlock Holmes the morning after a shag.  
  
“Good morning,” he said when he entered the living room. The detective was sitting at the table and typing, his black hair wildly mussed. From the glint in his eye he was onto something.  
  
“It’s the wife,” said Sherlock, “that’s _it,_ John.” His glanced up when John entered, but just for a moment before turning back. “Coffee?” Sherlock asked.  
  
John shrugged. He took a seat across the table and sat, staring, as Sherlock slid over a cup and went back to whatever it was he was doing. _Tap, tap, tap, tap._ The coffee was black and far too hot, but John sipped it anyway, grateful for the distraction.  
  
“You’re doing that thing again,” John said.  
  
“What thing?”  
  
“That thing where you act like I should know what you’re on about and I have absolutely no clue. I’ve mentioned it before, I think.”  
  
Sherlock waved his hand and grunted; John rolled his eyes and reached for the paper as the typing became more frantic.  
  
Finally, after some minutes, John sighed loudly. “The wife? What wife?” he asked.  
  
“The blacksmith’s wife,” Sherlock said, looking up. His eyes were clear this morning, blue-grey. Like the sea. For an instant, John imagined going to back to Yorkshire with Sherlock, like he had after . . .They’d never spoken about those lost weeks. Had Sherlock known? Or had he been away scouting Argentina for assassins by then?  
  
John blew out a breath. “The blacksmith’s wife,” he repeated. “Oh yes, Lambeth Hill. You think it was the wife?”  
  
“Steven Higgins, a man nearing sixty, forty years of marriage . . . the grieving widow is the last one you’d suspect.”  
  
“But you do.”  
  
Sherlock snorted. “His clothes, John--there was a bit of a body left, but his clothes were incinerated. Who do you think dressed him? Could have easily doused them with a flammable liquid? Had access to his forge?”  
  
“But, married for forty years--why would she want him dead?” John asked, feeling easy again. They would be okay, no matter what, because they still had this.  
  
“He beat her,” Sherlock said, so nonchalantly John cringed. “There were bruises on her neck in several family photos. She tried to hide them with scarves.”  
  
“I thought you said you hadn’t been to the scene.”  
  
Sherlock bit his lip.  
  
“Sherlock . . .” John tried to keep the amusement from his tone and failed miserably.  
  
“No one noticed. Anyhow, it wasn’t her, it was her brother. He’s the missing link. It just came to me this morning,” Sherlock said. The unvoiced accusation of the idiocy Scotland Yard was implied.  
  
“So you took my advice, then,” John said, remembering his suggestion about the moustaches. He took another sip of coffee and waited.  
  
“No, I simply paid a visit while she was sleeping.”  
  
“Please tell me you didn’t break into her house.”  
  
“I didn’t,” Sherlock said. “The back door was unlocked.”    
  
John rolled his eyes. It wasn’t exactly unusual for Sherlock to do such a thing, but it surprised John he didn’t know. Usually he’d have been in on it, even if he didn’t want to be. “When?”  
  
“When you were out . . . with the man.”  
  
“With David.”  
  
Sherlock gave a warning look and went back to his task. Finally, he hit a key with a flourish. “Enjoy, Detective-Inspector,” he told the screen.  
  
The room was silent without Sherlock’s typing. John cleared his throat. It looked as if the task of bringing up what had happened _after_ Sherlock’s illegal breaking and entering was going to fall to him.  
  
“Right then,” John began, trying to think of the best way to go about it. “Sherlock, about last--”  
  
“You sleep restlessly,” Sherlock interrupted. He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face, and rubbed his chin--which, John noticed distractedly, needed a shave.  
  
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry if I kept you awake. It’s . . .”  
  
Instead of responding, Sherlock was around the table, pulling John to his feet. Coffee sloshed out of his cup before he had a chance to set it down.  
  
“It’s fine. I expected it. And you frown.” Sherlock touched his finger to John’s face, just to the left of his mouth. John’s heart thundered stupidly. He clasped the material of Sherlock’s robe with both hands and held tight.  
  
“Do I?”  
  
“You talk, as well.”  
  
John knew he did; Mary had often complained of the same, claiming he woke her up in the middle of the night. When he’d pressed her about what he said, she’d never given him a straight answer. He figured it was something to do with war trauma--some memory of the desert--and eventually let it go.  
  
“Oh really? What do I say?” he asked.  
  
“My name,” Sherlock whispered like a precious, quiet secret. And then John was kissed soundly.  
  


******

“This, just like this,” Sherlock hissed, his tongue curling over the shell of John’s ear as he pressed him down into the mattress. They were naked and tangled with each other on John’s bed late in the evening weeks later--weeks that had left John exhausted and happy and strangely melancholy.  
  
It wasn’t surprising, really, that Sherlock treated sex the way he treated his cases--he was obsessed, slightly mad, and enthusiastic in a way that bordered on problematic. If he hadn’t known of Sherlock’s inexperience before this, he never would have believed it, except for those moments just before he came when he looked at John with unguarded rawness. Like the time he’d asked John to fuck him, wanting to see what it was like. John shuddered, remembering the almost too-intense bliss--the way it pained him to look at Sherlock’s face.  
  
Most of the time, however, Sherlock liked to be in control. With shagging, as with everything else that interested him, he was a perfectionist. John was a puzzle to be sorted and studied, and Sherlock was very inventive in his experiments.  
  
Like this one, for instance. Sherlock’s long fingers twisting inside of him--slowly, so slowly stretching him with a maddening, precise aim. With Sherlock straddling his thighs, John couldn’t rut into the mattress and relieve his aching erection the way he wanted, and so he groaned into the pillow, listening to the obscene squelch of lube as Sherlock took him apart.  
  
“You’re beautiful like this,” Sherlock said, his thighs squeezing John’s legs together even as his fingers touched deeper. John was very close to coming. Of course, that’s what Sherlock wanted--to see if John could come from his fingers alone, how long it would take, how slow he could go without John making a fuss and telling him to just _get on_ with it.  
  
Sherlock ran his free hand down John’s spine and then down along the curve of his arse and John wanted to _see_ Sherlock, because he could just imagine the way he looked now, finely muscled limbs and perfect cock. He couldn’t turn his head, though, not without straining his neck and putting an end to their fun--he was forty, after all, despite the fact that he’d been shagging with the frequency of a much younger man. What he really, really wanted more than anything was to be fucked--hard and _now_. Because with Sherlock inside him he could almost imagine that this could last. He could almost imagine that Sherlock would want to keep doing _this_ even after he’d solved all of the riddles of John’s body.  
  
When the fingers withdrew, John moaned with frustration.  
  
“Turn over,” Sherlock said, moving off his legs. John rolled over to his back, gripping the base of his neglected cock, but Sherlock dragged his hand away, his eyes wild. “Don’t,” he said, and John grimaced but didn’t try to resist.  
  
“I’ve decided to amend the experiment. This is phase two.” Without another word he drew John deep into his mouth and--bloody hell--swallowed around him. John’s eyes rolled back in his head at the force of the suction and he arched off the bed, brain whiting out as he painted the back of Sherlock’s throat with come.  
  
When John’s heart rate finally calmed again, he opened his eyes. Sherlock was staring at him, his still-hard prick jutting from his hips.  
  
“Phase two was a success,” John joked feebly. He reached out to reciprocate, but Sherlock batted his hand away.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why?” Sherlock had been acting a bit strange since John had arrived home from the clinic a few hours before. He’d been silent for nearly an hour and then had dragged John to the bedroom to conduct this _experiment_ with no explanation.    
  
“I’m going to fuck you until you come again,” said Sherlock, crawling toward him. There was a note of desperation in his voice that John was starting to recognize as _need_ , and it blew his mind every time, the idea that Sherlock Holmes could want him the way that he wanted Sherlock. It erased the modicum of embarrassment John had felt at Sherlock’s declaration--until now, John had never talked dirty in bed. None of the women he’d ever been with had ever wanted to, and anyway, he felt too exposed. It wasn’t very English, was it? Or perhaps it was and John simply hadn’t known. Sherlock seemed to have no such compunction.  
  
John glanced at his penis, now sleeping softly on his thigh. “Not sure that’s happening tonight.” It wasn’t only his cock that was exhausted; it had been a long day at the clinic and his shoulder had begun to bother him. It sometimes twinged on rainy, late winter days. In any case, he couldn’t imagine anyone, even Sherlock, wringing another orgasm from him.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said in a growly whisper, and John shifted to lay on his side so Sherlock could fit into him from behind. No matter how tired he was, he wanted it, because for three years this man had been dead. For three years he’d been gone and John still woke up some mornings confused, reaching out and shocked when his hand met warm flesh.  
  
 “Don’t expect me to . . .” John said, not able to finish the sentence, because he was being filled by a thrust that burned but went easily, slicked by a seeming eternity of _phase one_. John sighed and leaned back against Sherlock’s chest, surprised by the beginning stirrings of arousal as Sherlock began to cant his hips.  
  
“Are you mine, John?”  
  
John murmured the answer, which of course was always yes, but Sherlock didn’t seem placated this time. He moved faster.    
  
“Say it again.”  
  
“I’m yours . . . you insufferable git,” John managed.  
  
It didn’t appear the right thing to say. Sherlock growled, pulled out, and manhandled John to his knees, yanking his hips and driving roughly back inside. Perhaps John should have felt humiliated--feeling completely owned and filled--instead, he found himself revelling in it, especially when the tables were turned and Sherlock’s thrusts lost their rhythm. He groaned and pushed back and Sherlock cursed, withdrawing. Now it was John’s turn to curse.  
  
“Why are you stopping?” John asked. He glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock was kneeling, gripping his glistening prick, eyes closed. He was breathing calmly, though it was obviously taking some effort.  
  
“Just a moment,” came the even reply.  
  
John could have stared at Sherlock, a lewd, perfect statue, for many more minutes, but Sherlock seemed to have gotten himself under control. He opened his eyes again and grabbed John’s hips, guiding his cock back in place. This time, he moved leisurely, long, smooth drags angled _just so_ . . . John couldn’t think. His own arousal had returned but every time he reached for his erection, Sherlock pulled out completely and waited until John dropped his hand. It was intolerable. It was brilliant. John had a strange suspicion that Sherlock was actually counting his thrusts.  
  
He didn’t know how many minutes they’d been at it, but eventually Sherlock picked up speed again, fucking in with sharp snaps of his hips, each one punctuated with a nearly inaudible grunt. John wanted to bring himself off so desperately, tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He grabbed for his cock, but Sherlock held his arm.  
  
“John,” he said, his voice a warning.  
  
John’s reply was a whimper because Sherlock, bloody awful inhuman being, had withdrawn _again._  
  
“On your back,” Sherlock said. John didn’t think he’d ever moved so fast in his life.  
  
After a bit of angling with pillows and legs, Sherlock pressed back inside, the different position making John’s cock leak onto his stomach. He was going to come and Sherlock would be pleased at the success of phase two, or three, or whatever this was. John closed his eyes and let himself be folded nearly in half with the downward drive of Sherlock’s hips, not caring if he would be sore afterward.  
  
“Look at me,” Sherlock demanded. John forced his eyes open. Sherlock’s mask was slipping. He looked _wrecked._  
  
Kissing was nearly impossible in their position, but Sherlock leaned close, his eyes as dark as if he were drugged. It was almost _too_ intimate, this mingling of breath, but John watched. He wanted to memorize Sherlock’s face so he would have this forever, even if it ended. He would have it.  
  
Finally, a hand closed around John’s cock, stripping it with quick, brutal strokes. John cried out as the orgasm was wrung from him, the press of Sherlock inside making it so intense, John bit his lip and tasted blood. Sherlock followed almost immediately after, losing his rhythm, making John think all sorts of sordid things that he couldn’t say aloud. _Fill me. Fuck, fill me up._  
  
They both collapsed on the bed, and John kissed Sherlock’s sweaty head ( _He was human after all_ , John thought). Sherlock gave John a small smile, but he still seemed out of sorts, which was surprising given how well his _experiment_ had gone. John decided not to press and, after a moment, got up to ring for takeaway.  He, for one, was starving.  
  
Sherlock wasn’t in a talkative mood at dinner; he hardly ate. After, John started a fire and settled down in his chair to read the paper, but he found himself distracted by Sherlock drumming his fingers against the floor. He was sprawled on the thinking couch, brooding.  
  
“What’s this all about?” John asked, giving up and folding the paper.  
  
Sherlock gave him a doleful glare.  
  
“Fine,” John said. “I won’t ask again, but you’re awfully irritating.”  
  
“Me? Me? I’m _irritating_?”  
  
Sherlock sprang up to standing, his robe flying open. He began to pace.  
  
“A bit, yeah.” John made the comment jokingly, but already he could see the problem--it was just as he’d feared. Sherlock was bored, and no amount of sex was going to make up for it, as mindblowing as it always was for John. After the blacksmith murder, Lestrade had made it clear under no uncertain terms that Sherlock was to stay well away from crime scenes. His fan base hadn’t gotten any less invasive; in fact, Sherlock’s recent reclusiveness seemed to have inspired more interest than ever. He still couldn’t work on private cases; and now his interest in John was waning. John tried not to feel sick, but the curry they’d had for dinner sat heavily in his stomach.    
  
“I can’t think in this house,” Sherlock said, throwing his arms wide. “I can’t _think_. There are too many thoughts and nothing to _focus_ on. And you’re gone every day with that man and you have a _life_. You go to the clinic and you’re happy, you’re content. I can’t be like that, John. I’m not a normal person. I’m an extraordinary person, and perhaps one day you’ll decide that an extraordinary person isn’t exactly the thing.”  
  
John nearly laughed, so acute was his relief. But an insecure Sherlock wasn’t exactly easy to deal with--he knew from experience. He frowned.  
  
“You really think I’d rather you be ordinary?”  
  
“Maybe. Like that man.”  
  
“Like David.”  
  
Sherlock tore at his hair. “Don’t say his _name_!”  
  
They hadn’t spoken about David in weeks, and John had hardly seen him even at work. It seemed impossible that Sherlock could still be jealous, and yet here he was, running a track in the carpet as though his feet were on fire.  
  
John stood up and went to where Sherlock stood glowering, his bottom lip stuck out like that of a petulant child.  
  
“I’d never want you to be ordinary,” John said. “This whole time,” he gestured between them, “I’ve been thinking the opposite.”  
  
Sherlock gave him a puzzled look, and John sighed.  
  
“I’ve been worried you’ll lose interest in me. That maybe I’m too boring for you--too ordinary. There. I said it.”  
  
“Lose interest in you?”  
  
“Why are you repeating me? It’s annoying. And yes, that’s what I said.”  
  
“But John,” said Sherlock, the corner of his mouth turning up. “you’re not boring. Except when you lecture me about smoking. Or keeping severed heads in the fridge. That is decidedly _boring_.”    
  
John grinned and reached out for the other man’s hand. Sherlock’s fingers curled into his. His man. Could that really be?  
  
 _I love you,_ he thought to himself. _God help me, it’s wrong how much I love you._

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was the second to last chapter. I hope you enjoyed!


	12. Part Twelve

John hadn’t blogged much since Sherlock’s return, mainly because there had been few cases to solve since Sherlock had been called off by Scotland Yard, but partly because he hadn’t fancied sharing Sherlock with anyone else. Before the fall, John had taken great pride in making his friend’s incredible talents—and even sometimes his failings—available to the world. After, however, he’d wanted to keep them all to himself, secrets, because for so long he’d had so little.  
  
But today, John had woken up with an idea.  
  
 _Dear barmy Sherlock stalkers,_  
  
He chuckled to himself and deleted the line.  
  
 _Dear World,_  
  
Too broad, impersonal.  
  
 _Friends of Sherlock Holmes,_  
  
That was better. He kept the salutation, but now what to say? Launching into an accusatory tirade against the people and the press didn’t seem like the thing to do, especially since he was trying to draw attention away from Sherlock, not add more. In any case, he was sure a simple message would suffice.  
  
 _Leave him alone._  
  
On second thought, maybe not quite as tactless as that.  
  
 _Sherlock Holmes has given us all so much. Let him be and do the things he loves to do. Or would you rather he live his life in a cage?_  
  
Suddenly, John was distracted by a curse from the end of the table, where Sherlock sat hunched over his computer.  
  
“Die again, did you?” John asked.  
  
“It’s this blasted resurrection sickness,” came the irritated reply.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I should have never used the spirit healer,” Sherlock muttered at the screen, then began frantically pecking at keys. “Ridiculous, novice mistake. It’s never worth the cost.”  
  
John sighed. It had been like this for days. Sherlock didn’t even want to leave off World of Warcraft for dinner or to come to bed unless John offered other, more compelling reasons (which of course John had no problem doing). It was something, at least, that Sherlock had finally found a less destructive way to relieve his boredom than with drugs or by shooting the walls of their flat.  
  
John finished his blog post and looked it over. Satisfied, he posted it, noting the time stamp with surprise. Molly and Lestrade were dropping by for dinner—bringing it, really, since neither John nor Sherlock could cook to save their lives—and Sherlock was still in his robe.  
  
“Sherlock,” he said, but Sherlock was whispering something to himself about a fictional general and didn’t hear him.  
  
“Sherlock,” he said again, more loudly this time. Still no answer.  
  
John got up, walked over to Sherlock’s chair, and shut the laptop. He had to suck in his cheeks to keep from laughing at the put upon expression on Sherlock’s face, blue eyes narrowed.  
  
“I can’t believe you just did that. I was in the middle of a quest. That was unforgivable.”  
  
“I’ve forgiven you for shamming dead for three years, so if this is your hard limit, I think we have a problem.”  
  
It was enough to coax Sherlock into the shower.  
  
While he was washing three days of World of Warcraft from his skin, John straightened up the flat, feeling domestic and not at all resentful of it. He thought about the night ahead. Since he and Sherlock had started shagging, they hadn’t seen much of Molly or Greg, and John was wondering if they’d sense the difference. What was the protocol regarding disclosure when you started sleeping with a genius with sociopathic tendencies? When he and Sherlock were in public (which was rarely, since they were followed anywhere they went together), they hadn’t been noticeably affectionate, but when they were alone Sherlock watched him and smiled when he thought John wasn’t looking. Sometimes an innocent kiss on the head would take John by surprise, make him marvel that it was okay, that they were like this now, that it didn’t have to end, even. Not yet, not if they didn’t want it to.  
  
And ending it was the last thing he wanted, because now he could walk into the bathroom while Sherlock showered and make sure there was enough soap for guests to wash their hands. Now he could pull back the curtain and admire the view. Sherlock might hear and turn around, shamelessly soaping the hair under his arms, his balls, give John an evil smile and ask if he needed a shower as well.  
  
“Tempting,” John said, trailing a hand down Sherlock’s lean stomach and wetting his sleeve in the process. Sherlock looked like maybe he’d pull John in anyway. Then the doorbell rang.  
  
 _Later,_ John thought. How wonderful, the prospect of later.  
  
Dinner was Chinese food from the shop round the corner. Sherlock ate three egg rolls and nothing else, chewing silently, his eyes boring resentful holes into Lestrade’s skull. Molly and John chatted to lighten the mood. She was happy, John could tell—and, he suspected from the weight she’d gained around her middle, pregnant. She ate well and gazed at her husband fondly. When Sherlock started to say something rude, John elbowed him in the ribs and sent him to do the washing up.  
  
“Has he ever cleaned dishes before?” Molly asked when Sherlock had gone away.  
  
John frowned. “Not that I know of, no.”  
  
“There’s a first time for everything,” said Lestrade. He seemed younger, more relaxed than he had in the early days when he was still in a bad marriage and frazzled by department politics.  
  
A clatter rang from the kitchen, and John suspected at least one plate had been sacrificed at the altar of Sherlock’s irritation. He smiled. They were ugly dishes, anyway.  
  
“We need him back,” Lestrade said, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Both of you, really. Got a call today in Brixton. The second in a week—one bullet, no forced entry. Just a kid. At first I thought it was gang-related, but there was this.” Lestrade pulled out his mobile and handed it to John. The victim’s forehead, what was left of it, anyway, was marked with the letter ‘B’.  
  
“B?” John passed back the phone. He didn’t know if his blog stunt today would amount to anything, but if Lestrade was changing his mind he’d do everything he could to encourage it.  
  
Lestrade blew out a breath. “The first victim was ‘A’. Jesus, John, I think we might have a serial murderer on our hands.”  
  
John’s heart started beating just a bit faster. The Alphabet Killer. He could already see the glee on Sherlock’s face. “He loves those.”  
  
Molly rubbed Lestrade’s knee and quirked an eyebrow toward the kitchen. “Maybe you should . . .”  
  
“Go talk to him,” Lestrade finished.  
  
“Good luck,” said John.  
  
“I have my pistol.” Lestrade patted his hip.  
  
“Make sure it’s loaded.”  
  
Once they were alone, Molly laughed and shook her head.  
  
“What’s so funny?”  
  
“So,” she said, “you and him?”  
  
A loud whoop sounded from the other room and something else crashed. Another plate, probably. John rolled his eyes, considering his answer to Molly’s question. Of course he could deny it, but he didn’t want to. It wasn’t a secret, in any case. “Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “How about that?”  
  
“I never thought he . . .” Molly paused and looked toward the kitchen, making sure they weren’t overheard. “Until you,” she said, “I never thought he could like anyone. Even _like,_ you know, as a friend. He certainly didn’t like me.” She gave another laugh, a sad one that was meant to be happy.  
  
John didn’t like thinking about Sherlock being alone, but he nodded, remembering the time in the country— _I don’t have friends. I have one._  
  
“You’re good for him,” she said. Then her voice got curious. “Is he good for you?”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, he’s good for me. What about you?” John asked. He didn’t want to pry but she seemed bursting to tell him. “Seems you’ve got something new going on, there. Am I right?”  
  
Blushing, Molly rubbed her stomach. “Something new. Three months new.”  
  
After Molly and Greg left it was nearing midnight. John yawned, feeling the tiredness in his bones, but Sherlock was in great spirits. Apparently he and Lestrade had worked out a sort of plan that would allow Sherlock access to the crime scenes without drawing attention to his presence. It meant that Sherlock’s public role would be downplayed, at least for a while, but that didn’t matter to Sherlock now. He was thrilled, and he was composing music: a very rare combination indeed.  
  
“Well,” John said, “I’m off to bed.” He hadn’t even bothered to check his blog, but it could wait ‘til the morning. He was knackered and suffering from a case of indigestion courtesy of too much pork lo mein.  
  
“Staying up for a bit,” Sherlock replied, his violin poised on his shoulder.  
  
“I guessed that.”  
  
As John turned round, Sherlock called out, “yours or mine?”  
  
“Mine,” said John, smiling to himself. He wanted to sleep in his own room tonight; Sherlock’s mattress was too firm and he needed a good night’s rest. That wasn’t why he was smiling, though. Sherlock didn’t need to ask him where he was headed, but it was his way of telling John that later, after he’d run out all his adrenaline and his mind was ready, yes, he’d be there, too.  
  


*******

  
John dreamed.  
  
He was back in the desert in hospital, the wound on his arm puffy and sore under loose bandages.  
  
 _Are you ready to go home, Captain?_  
  
It was a familiar voice, very familiar. John nodded at the figure, but he couldn’t make out the face.  
  
 _I think so._  
  
It started to rain, a warm, wet drizzle like London in August. John felt comfortable; the pain in his arm began to recede. And then something rustled. The bed dipped, jostling him.  
  
John blinked in the darkness, his sleep-fuzzied mind growing clearer. He reached down and got a handful of soft hair. Sherlock was . . . oh, Sherlock was nosing into his thigh at the crease of his leg.  
  
John groaned. “What are you doing?” He was already half-hard, and growing more aroused as Sherlock mouthed at his cock, blowing warm air through the fabric of his pants, wetting them with his tongue.  
  
“I read your blog,” Sherlock said. He snaked his hand over John’s belly, making John self-conscious of its softness, but not enough to want him to stop.  
  
“My blog? God, Sherlock, your mouth.” How was he expected to think straight as Sherlock pulled his cock out, licked the tip?  
  
“Yes,” he thought Sherlock said. It wasn’t quite clear because John’s cock muffled the words. But then the mouth was gone and John could have screamed.  
  
“You told the world,” Sherlock said. John wasn’t sure what he meant, only that Sherlock needed to keep doing what he’d been doing, goddamn it. John wasn’t in the mood for games. He wanted to get _off._ Now Sherlock was just lightly stroking him, fingering his pubic hair, pressing a soft kiss at the base.  
  
“No . . . keep . . .”  
  
“Keep what?”  
  
“You know what.”  
  
“Say it, John.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, teasing.  
  
John grimaced, shot out, “Suck it, you arse.”  
  
“Suck what, exactly?”  
  
“Fuck,” John said, squirming uncomfortably. “Suck my cock.”  
  
“That’s better.”  
  
Sherlock started up again, working him quickly with his hand and his mouth and John couldn’t stop from thrusting deep, holding Sherlock’s head as he started to come.  
  
Afterward, they lay in the darkness. John started drifting back to sleep.  
  
 _“If you love Sherlock, you’ll let him be,”_ Sherlock said.  
  
The bit of blood seeping back to John’s brain helped some neurons fire. Oh, right, he’d said something along those lines. The blog. The message.  
  
“I don’t know if it will make any difference,” John said.  
  
“It already has.”  
  
They were quiet then, but John could almost hear Sherlock’s mind churning . . . he wondered if this was Sherlock’s way of saying the words he couldn’t say. Maybe it was better.  
  
“It’s on again,” Sherlock said. John knew he meant the game.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Will you come with me?”  
  
“Of course. You can’t get rid of me now. You’ll break all the dishes on your own.”  
  
A chuckle in the darkness, a warm arm on his chest. John smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was the last bit! I hope you enjoyed. Thank you for reading.


End file.
